The Warrior Prophet, Page 2

  Alone in his humble tent, he weeps, overcome by loneliness, dread, and remorse.

  Esmenet is a Sumni prostitute who mourns both her life and her daughter. When Achamian arrives on his mission to learn more about Maithanet, she readily takes him in. During this time, she continues to take and service her customers, knowing full well the pain this causes Achamian. But she really has no choice: sooner or later, she realizes, Achamian will be called away. And yet she falls ever deeper in love with the hapless sorcerer, in part because of the respect he accords her and in part because of the worldly nature of his work. Though her sex has condemned her to sit half-naked in her window, the world beyond has always been her passion. The intrigues of the Great Factions, the machinations of the Consult: these are the things that quicken her soul!

  Then disaster strikes: Achamian’s informant, Inrau, is murdered, and the bereaved Schoolman is forced to travel to Momemn. Esmenet begs him to take her with him, but he refuses, and she finds herself once again marooned in her old life. Not long after, a threatening stranger comes to her room, demanding to know everything about Achamian. Twisting her desire against her, the man ravishes her, and Esmenet finds herself answering all his questions. Come morning he vanishes as suddenly as he appears, leaving only pools of black seed to mark his passing.

  Horrified, Esmenet flees Sumna, determined to find Achamian and tell him what happened. In her bones she knows the stranger is somehow connected to the Consult. On her way to Momemn she pauses in a village, hoping to find someone to repair her broken sandal. When the villagers recognize the whore’s tattoo on her hand they begin stoning her—the punishment the Tusk demands of prostitutes. Only the sudden appearance of a Shrial Knight named Sarcellus saves her, and she has the satisfaction of watching her tormentors humbled. Sarcellus takes her the rest of the way to Momemn, and Esmenet finds herself growing more and more infatuated with his wealth and aristocratic manner. He seems so free of the melancholy and indecision that plague Achamian.

  Once they reach the Holy War, Esmenet stays with Sarcellus, even though she knows Achamian is only miles away. As the Shrial Knight continually reminds her, Schoolmen such as Achamian are forbidden to take wives. If she were to run to him, he says, it would be only a matter of time before he abandoned her again.

  Weeks pass, and she finds herself esteeming Sarcellus less and pining for Achamian more and more. Finally, on the night before the Holy War is to march, she sets off in search of the portly sorcerer, determined to tell him everything that has happened. After a harrowing search she finally locates Xinemus’s camp, only to find herself too ashamed to make her presence known. She hides in the darkness instead, waiting for Achamian to appear, and wondering at the strange collection of men and women about the fire. When dawn arrives without any sign of Achamian, Esmenet wanders across the abandoned site, only to see him trudging toward her. She holds out her arms to him, weeping with joy and sorrow …

  And he simply walks past her as though she were a stranger.

  Heartbroken, she flees, determined to make her own way in the Holy War.

  Cnaiür urs Skiötha is a Chieftain of the Utemot, a tribe of Scylvendi, who are feared across the Three Seas for their skill and ferocity in war. Because of the events surrounding the death of his father, Skiötha, thirty years previous, Cnaiür is despised by his own people, though none dare challenge him because of his savage strength and his cunning in war. Word arrives that the Emperor’s nephew, Ikurei Conphas, has invaded the Holy Steppe, and Cnaiür rides with the Utemot to join the Scylvendi horde on the distant Imperial frontier. Knowing Conphas’s reputation, Cnaiür senses a trap, but his warnings go unheeded by Xunnurit, the chieftain elected King-of-Tribes for the coming battle. Cnaiür can only watch as the disaster unfolds.

  Escaping the horde’s destruction, Cnaiür returns to the pastures of the Utemot more anguished than ever. He flees the whispers and the looks of his fellow tribesmen and rides to the graves of his ancestors, where he finds a grievously wounded man sitting upon his dead father’s barrow, surrounded by circles of dead Sranc. Warily approaching, Cnaiür nightmarishly realizes that he recognizes the man—or almost recognizes him. He resembles Anasûrimbor Moënghus in almost every respect, save that he is too young …

  Moënghus had been captured thirty years previous, when Cnaiür was little more than a stripling, and given to Cnaiür’s father as a slave. He claimed to be Dûnyain, a people possessed of an extraordinary wisdom, and Cnaiür spent many hours with him, speaking of things forbidden to Scylvendi warriors. What happened afterward—the seduction, the murder of Skiötha, and Moënghus’s subsequent escape—has tormented Cnaiür ever since. Though he once loved the man, he now hates him with a deranged intensity. If only he could kill Moënghus, he believes, his heart could be made whole.

  Now, impossibly, this double has come to him, travelling the same path as the original.

  Realizing the stranger could make possible his vengeance, Cnaiür takes him captive. The man, who calls himself Anasûrimbor Kellhus, claims to be Moënghus’s son. The Dûnyain, he says, have sent him to assassinate his father in a faraway city called Shimeh. But as much as Cnaiür wants to believe this story, he’s wary and troubled. After years of obsessively pondering Moënghus, he’s come to understand that the Dûnyain are gifted with preternatural skills and intelligence. Their sole purpose, he now knows, is domination, though where others use force and fear, the Dûnyan use deceit and love.

  The story Kellhus has told him, Cnaiür realizes, is precisely the story a Dûnyain seeking escape and safe passage across Scylvendi lands would provide. Nevertheless, he makes a bargain with the man, agreeing to accompany him on his quest. The two strike out across the Steppe, locked in a shadowy war of word and passion. Time and again Cnaiür finds himself drawn into Kellhus’s insidious nets, only to recall himself at the last moment. Only his hatred of Moënghus and knowledge of the Dûnyain preserve him.

  Near the Imperial frontier they encounter a party of hostile Scylvendi raiders. Kellhus’s unearthly skill in battle both astounds and terrifies Cnaiür. In the battle’s aftermath they find a captive concubine, a woman named Serwë, cowering among the raiders’ chattel. Struck by her beauty, Cnaiür takes her as his prize, and through her he learns of Maithanet’s Holy War for Shimeh, the city where Moënghus supposedly dwells … Can this be a coincidence?

  Coincidence or not, the Holy War forces Cnaiür to reconsider his original plan to travel around the Empire, where his Scylvendi heritage will mean almost certain death. With the Fanim rulers of Shimeh girding for war, the only possible way they can reach the holy city is to become Men of the Tusk. They have no choice, he realizes, but to join the Holy War, which according to Serwë, gathers about the city of Momemn in the heart of the Empire—the one place he cannot go. Now that they have safely crossed the Steppe, Cnaiür is convinced Kellhus will kill him: the Dûnyain brook no liabilities.

  Descending the mountains into the Empire, Cnaiür confronts Kellhus, who claims he has use of him still. While Serwë watches in horror, the two men battle on the mountainous heights, and though Cnaiür is able to surprise Kellhus, the man easily overpowers him, holding him by the throat over a precipice. To prove his intent to keep their bargain, he spares Cnaiür’s life. After so many years among world-born men, Kellhus claims, Moënghus will be far too powerful for him to face alone. They will need an army, he says, and unlike Cnaiür he knows nothing of war.

  Despite his misgivings, Cnaiür believes him, and they resume their journey. As the days pass, Cnaiür watches Serwë become more and more infatuated with Kellhus. Though troubled by this, he refuses to admit as much, reminding himself that warriors care nothing for women, particularly those taken as the spoils of battle. What does it matter that she belongs to Kellhus during the day? She is Cnaiür’s at night.

  After a desperate journey and pursuit through the heart of the Empire, they at last find their way to Momemn and the Holy War, where they are taken before one of the Holy War’s lead
ers, a Conriyan Prince named Nersei Proyas. In keeping with their plan, Cnaiür claims to be the last of the Utemot, travelling with Anasûrimbor Kellhus, a Prince of the northern city of Atrithau, who has dreamt of the Holy War from afar. Proyas, however, is far more interested in Cnaiür’s knowledge of the Fanim and their way of battle. Obviously impressed by what he has to say, the Conriyan Prince takes Cnaiür and his companions under his protection.

  Soon afterward, Proyas takes Cnaiür and Kellhus to a meeting of the Holy War’s leaders and the Emperor, where the fate of the Holy War is to be decided. Ikurei Xerius III has refused to provision the Men of the Tusk unless they swear to return all the lands they wrest from the Fanim to the Empire. The Shriah, Maithanet, can force the Emperor to provision them, but he fears the Holy War lacks the leadership to overcome the Fanim. The Emperor offers his brilliant nephew, Ikurei Conphas, flush from his spectacular victory over the Scylvendi at Kiyuth, but only—once again—if the leaders of the Holy War pledge to surrender their future conquests. In a daring gambit, Proyas offers Cnaiür in Conphas’s stead. A vicious war of words ensues, and Cnaiür manages to best the precocious Imperial Nephew. The Shriah’s representative orders the Emperor to provision the Men of the Tusk. The Holy War will march.

  In a mere matter of days, Cnaiür has gone from a fugitive to a leader of the greatest host ever assembled in the Three Seas. What does it mean for a Scylvendi to treat with outland princes, with peoples he is sworn to destroy? What must he surrender to see his vengeance through?

  That night, he watches Serwë surrender to Kellhus body and soul, and he wonders at the horror he has delivered to the Holy War. What will Anasûrimbor Kellhus—a Dûnyain—make of these Men of the Tusk? No matter, he tells himself, the Holy War marches to distant Shimeh—to Moënghus and the promise of blood.

  Anasûrimbor Kellhus is a monk sent by his order, the Dûnyain, to search for his father, Anasûrimbor Moënghus.

  Since discovering the secret redoubt of the Kûniüric High Kings during the Apocalypse some two thousand years previous, the Dûnyain have concealed themselves, breeding for reflex and intellect, and continually training in the ways of limb, thought, and face—all for the sake of reason, the sacred Logos. In the effort to transform themselves into the perfect expression of the Logos, the Dûnyain have bent their entire existence to mastering the irrationalities that determine human thought: history, custom, and passion. In this way, they believe, they will eventually grasp what they call the Absolute, and so become true self-moving souls.

  But their glorious isolation is at an end. After thirty years of exile, one of their number, Anasûrimbor Moënghus, has reappeared in their dreams, demanding they send to him his son. Knowing only that his father dwells in a distant city called Shimeh, Kellhus undertakes an arduous journey through lands long abandoned by men. While wintering with a trapper named Leweth, he discovers he can read the man’s thoughts through the nuances of his expression. World-born men, he realizes, are little more than children in comparison with the Dûnyain. Experimenting, he finds that he can exact anything from Leweth—any love, any sacrifice—with mere words. So what of his father, who has spent thirty years among such men? What is the extent of Anasûrimbor Moënghus’s power?

  When a band of inhuman Sranc discovers Leweth’s steading, the two men are forced to flee. Leweth is wounded, and Kellhus leaves him for the Sranc, feeling no remorse. The Sranc overtake him, and after driving them away, he battles their leader, a deranged Nonman, who nearly undoes him with sorcery. Kellhus flees, wracked by questions without answers: sorcery, he’d been taught, was nothing more than superstition. Could the Dûnyain have been wrong? What other facts had they overlooked or suppressed?

  Eventually he finds refuge in the ancient city of Atrithau, where, using his Dûnyain abilities, he assembles an expedition to traverse the Sranc-infested plains of Suskara. After a harrowing trek, he crosses the frontier only to be captured by a mad Scylvendi Chieftain named Cnaiür urs Skiötha—a man who both knows and hates his father, Moënghus.

  Though his knowledge of the Dûnyain renders Cnaiür immune to direct manipulation, Kellhus quickly realizes he can turn the man’s thirst for vengeance to his advantage. Claiming to be an assassin sent to murder Moënghus, he asks the Scylvendi to join him on his quest. Overpowered by his hatred, Cnaiür reluctantly agrees, and the two men set out across the Jiünati Steppe. Time and again, Kellhus tries to secure the trust he needs to possess the man, but the barbarian continually rebuffs him. His hatred and penetration are too great.

  Then, near the Imperial frontier, they find a concubine named Serwë, who informs them of a Holy War gathering about Momemn—a Holy War for Shimeh. The fact that his father has summoned him to Shimeh at the same time, Kellhus realizes, can be no coincidence. But what could Moënghus be planning?

  They cross the mountains into the Empire, and Kellhus watches Cnaiür struggle with the growing conviction that he’s outlived his usefulness. Thinking that murdering Kellhus is as close as he’ll ever come to murdering Moënghus, Cnaiür attacks him, only to be defeated. To prove that he still needs him, Kellhus spares his life. He must, Kellhus knows, dominate the Holy War, but he as yet knows nothing of warfare. The variables are too many.

  Though his knowledge of Moënghus and the Dûnyain renders him a liability, Cnaiür’s skill in war makes him invaluable. To secure this knowledge, Kellhus starts seducing Serwë, using her and her beauty as detours to the barbarian’s tormented heart.

  Once in the Empire, they stumble across a patrol of Imperial cavalrymen; their journey to Momemn quickly becomes a desperate race. When they finally reach the encamped Holy War they find themselves before Nersei Proyas, the Crown Prince of Conriya. To secure a position of honour among the Men of the Tusk, Kellhus lies, and claims to be a Prince of Atrithau. To lay the groundwork for his future domination, he claims to have suffered dreams of the Holy War—implying, without saying as much, that they were godsent. Since Proyas is more concerned with Cnaiür and how he can use the barbarian’s knowledge of battle to thwart the Emperor, these declarations are accepted without any real scrutiny. Only the Mandate Schoolman accompanying Proyas, Drusas Achamian, seems troubled by him—especially by his name.

  The following evening, Kellhus dines with the sorcerer, disarming him with humour, flattering him with questions. He learns of the Apocalypse and the Consult and many other sundry things, and though he knows Achamian harbours some terror regarding the name “Anasûrimbor,” he asks the melancholy man to become his teacher. The Dûnyain, Kellhus has come to realize, have been mistaken about many things, the existence of sorcery among them. There is so much he must know before he confronts his father …

  A final gathering is called to settle the issue between the lords of the Holy War, who want to march, and the Emperor, who refuses to provision them. With Cnaiür at his side, Kellhus charts the souls of all those present, calculating the ways he might bring them under his thrall. Among the Emperor’s advisers, however, he observes an expression he cannot read. The man, he realizes, possesses a false face. While Ikurei Conphas and the Inrithi caste-nobles bicker, Kellhus studies the man, and determines that his name is Skeaös by reading the lips of his interlocutors. Could this Skeaös be an agent of his father?

  Before he can draw any conclusions, however, his scrutiny is noticed by the Emperor himself, who has the adviser seized. Though the entire Holy War celebrates the Emperor’s defeat, Kellhus is more perplexed than ever. Never has he undertaken a study so deep.

  That night he consummates his relationship with Serwë, continuing the patient work of undoing Cnaiür—as all Men of the Tusk must be undone. Somewhere, a shadowy faction lurks behind faces of false skin. Far to the south in Shimeh, Anasûrimbor Moënghus awaits the coming storm.

  PART I:

  The First March

  CHAPTER ONE

  ANSERCA

  Ignorance is trust.

  —ANCIENT KÛNIÜRIC PROVERB

  Late Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-
Tusk, south of Momemn

  Drusas Achamian sat cross-legged in the darkness of his tent, a silhouette rocking slowly to and fro, muttering dark words. Light spilled from his mouth. Though the moon-shining length of the Meneanor Sea lay between him and Atyersus, he walked the ancient halls of his School—walked among sleepers.

  The dimensionless geometry of dreams never ceased to startle Achamian. There was something monstrous about a world where nothing was remote, where distances dissolved into a froth of words and competing passions. Something no knowledge could overcome.

  Pitched from nightmare to nightmare, Achamian at last found the sleeping man he sought: Nautzera in his dream, seated on blood-muddied turf, cradling a dead king on his lap. “Our King is dead!” Nautzera cried in Seswatha’s voice. “Anasûrimbor Celmomas is dead!”

  An unearthly roar hammered his ears. Achamian whirled, raising his hands against a titanic shadow.

  Wracu … Dragon.

  Billowing gusts staggered those standing, waved the arms of those fallen. Cries of dismay and horror rifled the air, then a cataract of boiling gold engulfed Nautzera and the High King’s attendants. There was no time for screams. Teeth cracked. Bodies tumbled like coals from a kicked fire.

  Achamian turned and saw Nautzera amid a field of smoking husks. Shielded by his Wards, the sorcerer laid the dead king on the ground, whispering words Achamian could not hear but had dreamed innumerable times: “Turn your soul’s eye from this world, dear friend … Turn so that your heart might be broken no more.”

  With the force of a toppled tower, the dragon thundered to earth, his descent yanking smoke and ash into towering veils. Portcullis jaws clacked shut. Wings like war-galley sails stretched out. The light of burning corpses shimmered across iridescent scales of black.